


A Queen in the Making

by Quin



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quin/pseuds/Quin
Summary: Realising a supernatural voice is calling out to her, Sansa leaves the crypt to help in the Battle of Winterfell.





	A Queen in the Making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).

> Takes place during S8E3.

Sansa winces as a needle-like pain suddenly pierces her temples and the back of her head. She hears a bang and a boom, screams, moving feet, so many voices. Everything echoes in her mind, and she can’t hear any more of what Tyrion has to say. Sansa wants to close her eyes, shut the chaos out to focus, but knows she can’t. She has to look out for danger. Yet something is lurking in the back of her mind, wanting her attention, too. The throbbing is increasing in pace—then the sensation turns into rapid pounding against her skull.

“Sansa, Sansa, the Godswood.”

Sansa looks for Tyrion, but he’s moved behind another tomb. Did he just tell her to leave the crypts? It can’t be. One place is as bad as the other. Chaos everywhere.

“Come, come to me.”

This time, Sansa knows for sure it isn’t Tyrion. Nobody is near her. A shiver runs down her spine. The voice is muffled. She frantically searches around. Wights are still on the advance—maybe she ought to move to a safer hiding place as well.

“No, stay,” someone urges her in a frantic tone. Sansa grips her face as once more several sounds collide in her mind. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t identify who and how many are speaking. If she only had a moment of peace to think. Sansa takes a deep breath, scolds herself. She can handle this. She has made it from King’s Landing to Winterfell, a journey full of hardships. She won’t give up so easily.

There’s something otherworldly about the words, whispers that seem to touch every nerve in Sansa’s body. Should she stay put behind the stone casket or try to fight her way to the Godswood?

Sansa clutches the dragonglass dagger Arya has given her, thinking of her sister. How is she faring? How is Jon and… of course, Bran. Bran is in the Godswood, trying to lure the Night King to him. From what Sansa has learnt about Bran since she and her brother reunited, he has changed much, tapping into a world she can barely imagine.

What if Bran and the others need her help after all? Sansa knows she isn’t a warrior, but she knows a small distraction can make all the difference whether you fight or play a political game. And she can be that distraction, make that difference.

A reassuring feeling settles in. Sansa is still freezing, but the cold sensation that seeps into her brain steels her nerves. She is of the North; she will prevail.

Sansa counts until three. Then she starts sprinting towards the crypt’s exit. Maybe it is pure luck, but all the wights seem to be occupied elsewhere. Sansa emerges into the frosty night, unscathed.

Now how to find a way to the Godswood without running into the enemy? Surely she will run out of luck sooner or later.

“I’ll guide you to me. Soon, you won’t need to fear them.”

For a moment, Sansa wonders how Bran became so confident. She stops worrying when there’s a sensation of icy fingers prodding her to move forward. She doesn’t mind the touch. It’s powerful, but with purpose.

Sansa strides down the path that leads to the Godswood, head held high, back straight. The wind ruffles Sansa’s hair, carrying a sigh that rattles Sansa down to her bones. The voice vibrates through her body. “You’re a special one.”

Irritated, Sansa comes to a halt. “Um, thanks, Bran,” she says, not knowing what to think. She believed she had gotten used to her brother being the Three-Eyed Raven. She is obviously wrong.

The wind picks up, shaking Sansa to and fro, as if laughing at her. Realisation dawns. Not Bran. But who else?

Sansa’s teeth chatter as she attempts to speak. She tries again and this time there is an icy chill to her demand: “Who are you? I am not afraid of you.”

Snow is falling faster and faster, twirling around Sansa as if asking her to dance. She can’t recognize anything in this blizzard. Nevertheless Sansa holds still as a ghostly hand unexpectedly cups her chin.

Goosebumps cover her skin as the voice floats over her. “Who I am? It should matter more to you who you are. Queen Sansa.”

Queen of the North. It has a nice ring, but political games mean nothing right now when the whole of Westeros is at stake.

“Not Queen of the North,” the voice points out. The eerie hand moves over to her cheek, leaving small icicles behind. “Queen.”

For a moment, Sansa is taken aback at the voice reading her thoughts. Then, all of her doubts are erased when pale finger tips start caressing her cheeks. Her eyes fly open and she can see as she has never seen before.

The world is tinted in ice blue. Sansa only needs to adjust her head to see every creature out there: humans, animals, wights. Snowflakes part before her; the ground trembles as she takes a step forward. She touches one of Winterfell’s walls and soon it is covered in a pretty web of frost.

Sansa turns around and is met by the Night King with a knowing smile. Sansa grins back, grabbing a nearby corpse. The King and Queen join hands as they observe Sansa’s first wight making its way to the Godswood.

There is no longer any need for Sansa to weigh the odds, no need to consider alliances, enemies and potential traitors, and no need to ask herself who’ll be the deciding factor. She is the deciding factor now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to rosefox for the beta.


End file.
